Twelve Hours for You
by Silver Maze
Summary: Time travel fic. Sherlock dedicates twelve hours for John. He may not get another chance for a very long time. Season 2 Spoiler Alert! Kind of Post-Reichenbach. Bromance between Sherlock and John.


-Disclaimer: It's a sad, sad thing that I don't own bbc Sherlock.

-Summary: Sherlock dedicates twelve hours for John. He may not get another chance for a very long time.

-Spoiler alert for Sherlock Season 2! Bromance between Sherlock and John.

-English is not my first language, so there would be some grammatical or spelling errors. Sorry for that.

**Twelve Hours for You**

**12:00 PM**

John slowly walked toward 221B Baker Street. The armful of loads he was carrying contained apples which the shop keeper recommended rather avidly of their sweetness. John hesitated for a moment but bought them in the end, remembering that Sherlock surprisingly had sweet tooth. All in all, it was a normal day; except for the fact that yesterday was the day that he told Sherlock of Irene Adler's admission to the witness protection program.

Irene Adler was a storm. John had never seen his flatmate affected so fiercely by feelings. Sherlock was belatedly suffering from an emotional havoc which most people would have gone through before they reached their thirties, and for that, there was nothing John could do. So he just chose to remain silently behind his friend. John had put Irene's phone in that pleading white hand and had gone out without further words. When he had come back, Sherlock had been lying on the coach with his hands together; as if he were praying.

However, by the time John went out to buy some foods, Sherlock was back to normal, shockingly so. 'John, don't forget to get some milk', he said, with annoyingly bland tone of his, and John had to wonder how he could act like nothing had ever happened. Did he just happen to have a high emotional recovery power, or was it his ego, forcing him to behave nonchalantly even in front of his (supposedly) best friend? What would it be like now, John asked himself as he inserted his key, was the face he showed this morning just a mask? Then what happened to the said mask now; was it still on or not?

The door opened with almost no sound. Sherlock was asleep on his favorite coach, folded into a tight little ball. John knew that Sherlock hadn't been sleeping well for quite a while, but couldn't erase the thought that the detective should eat something. Recently, Sherlock had lost some pounds. Leaving the shopping bags in the kitchen, John knelt beside the coach silently.

"Sherlock, if you are going to sleep, at least eat-"

It was when John's hand gently touched Sherlock's shoulder. Icy blue orbs suddenly opened wide and Sherlock's body raised itself forcefully as if it had been electrocuted. This unexpected reaction made John unable to do anything but to blink owlishly. Except for the days he chose to be wide awake at night, Sherlock used to show bizarrely strong attachment to remaining asleep. He often raised his blanket to the top of his head and claimed adamantly that he would never wake up. When he didn't, he pouted rebelliously and shuffled to the bathroom half-asleep. Not once, however, did he show this kind of over-reaction.

"-Sherlock?"

John could feel his flatmate's whole attention locking onto him after hearing that name. Their eyes met, and John had to fight against the chill racing through his spine. Sherlock was pale, more pale then he had ever seen that man to be, and there was no light in that deaden eyes. In short, he looked like someone who had just seen ghost. His knuckles had gone white, clutching at the coach.

"...John?" His eyes were wavering ever so slightly. Momentary indecision. Opening and closing his mouth aimlessly, and then- "Why are you.. but I, how could-" words tumbled out of his mouth uncontrollably but soon stopped. Too many words were fighting to be let out at the same time, it seemed. Unable to speak anymore, he cupped John's cheek with his slender fingers. What the hell are you doing, John wanted to ask, but he swallowed that question. Sherlock was touching John's face with desperation of drowning man looking for air. Even after a while, the tension between his shoulders didn't recede.

"Sherlock," John repeated the man's name once again. Glazed eyes in front of him snapped back to focus once again. "What happened, did you have a nightmare?"

"-Nightmare?" He answered, reacting half a beat too late unlike his usual self. Hands which had been caressing John's face slowly fell, only to be put on Sherlock's own forehead, shadowing his eyes. Unbelievably, he was shaking. John unconsciously tightened his grips on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock raised his head slowly then asked John with a serious look on his face.

"John, what's the date today?"

"-What?"

"Today's date. Month, date and year, it's an important question."

"M, May fifth, 2011," John answered, pressed by Sherlock's weird insistence. He was feeling more and more puzzled. "Why the sudden interest, just- what's going on, Sherlock? What happened?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Nothing, it's not important." Sherlock answered cryptically. His voice was tinted with odd combination of tiredness, relief and the other emotion John couldn't quite put a finger on. He opened his mouth to question the man once again- only to have curly black hair lightly rest on John's shoulder. The blonde sighed. It seemed like he didn't want to answer rather badly. Unable to demand anymore answer, John just loosely put his hand on his friend's head.

**1:15 P.M**

"...Sherlock, what's this?"

"What do you think it is?"

To answer as one saw it, the correct response would be 'lunch'. Very tasty looking lunch, in fact. But it was not that simple a matter. Living together with this man more than a year, John hardly ever saw him eating food, let alone cooking it. And now all of sudden, he was doing THIS?

"Did you really make this all by yourself?"

"Haven't I already informed you that I would prepare for lunch? You even said okay when I told you to just relax and wait for a bit."

"That's- I just assumed you would cook up sandwiches or something simple like that." John looked around the table which was boastfully demonstrating delicious looking food. "God, you made me cook all the time while you had this kind of talent?"

"I've only learned to cook quite recently. Need arose, and I figured being able to eat more tasty food wouldn't be a waist."

"What made you learn how to cook, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just put freshly cooked risotto on the table. John raised his eyebrows at his friend's uncharacteristic silence but didn't bother to ask again. It was easier to raise 1t truck over one's head than to open the mouth of Sherlock Holmes refusing to answer. Frankly, John didn't want to put himself in that kind of torture while aromatic food was waiting in front of him. He didn't know what kind mood the detective was in, but since it oh-so-rarely manifest in a good way, John Watson decided to just let it be and not complain.

"-How is it?"

"It's good, really good." It wasn't just a lip-service; John doubted he had ever eaten something good as this in his entire life. "How could you stand to eat my food when you could produce something like this?"

"Personally, I like your cooking better."

Ha, better my ass, John mocked his cooking skills as he chewed on his tasty treat. He didn't know how Sherlock figured it out, but the plates were all filled with his favorite food. John decided to enjoy that moment.

**2:07 P.M**

After the lunch was over, Sherlock declared that he would also do the dishes. In return, John offered to make some tea/coffee. Putting milk tea for himself and pushing black coffee with two sugars toward Sherlock, John asked casually.

"So, what's the matter?"

"What matter?"

"You realize that you haven't answered any of my questions straight today. Judging by your actions, I dare say you have some guilty conscience, but question is, what have you done wrong? By the way, you better not say 'nothing important'."

Blocked by John's forewarning, Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something and then closed it again. He silently stared down at his cup of coffee, which held black liquid swirling gently around the inside. Sherlock was wondering whether or not to confess the reason for his 'guilty conscience'. John waited. Whatever it was, he knew by experience that it was something Sherlock desperately wanted to speak aloud.

"I, did something stupid."

Sherlock slowly voiced his thought. John nodded without a word. He knew that this was time for careful and silent listening.

"Many people could have gotten hurt, many did, actually, and I was hurt too, a little." At that, Sherlock smiled faintly. It was such a mature smile that John couldn't help but stare at him for a while. He had no idea since when Sherlock Holmes could smile like that. A part of his heart ached a bit.

"You were, hurt the most, and I tried to fix it, but it was too late to do so."

"-Wait, hurt? Me? When did that happen?"

John wanted to remain silent until Sherlock finished all he wished to say, but he couldn't do that now. As far as he could remember, he hadn't been hurt so badly after being with Sherlock. Yes, there had been many life threatening situations, but with sheer luck, he (and Sherlock) managed to escape those situations with almost no injury. The most dangerous moment was in that swimming pool, and that went over rather... well, too, he guessed. Which led to John's query. At that, Sherlock stopped for a moment to think things over.

"When I said I did something stupid, technically, it wasn't exactly true," Sherlock sipped his coffee. It was obvious that he was hiding behind the cup to avoid looking directly at John. "To be precise, I would have to say... that I will do something stupid in the near future."

John frowned at that vague comment. "-So, you are going to do something stupid, which would hurt many people, especially me?"

"Yes."

"Let's just ignore the fact that it sounds awfully warped for now. Is there anything we could do to make you not do that said stupid thing?"

"At this point of time? Maybe. But to stop that from happening would require lots of preparation, and I honestly don't know how much time I have. Also, if I tick something off hastily, things would likely get much worse. Besides, even if we were to stop that for now, I have a feeling that I would do that later on anyway."

While conversing with Sherlock, John regularly felt like he was talking to an alien from 36.75 dimension. However, this conversation topped of every single discussions Sherlock and he had in its utter confoundedness. John tried to comprehend what his flatmate had just said, then gave up with roll of his eyes.

"Care to explain it all in human language?"

Sherlock's eyes curved into a graceful line. That was another new expression of Sherlock's that John had never seen before.

"Just for today, I want to be with you."

4:35 P.M

Despite of the corny line that Sherlock had uttered few hours prior, nothing drastic happened. What do you want to do with me, John asked half embarrassed and half befuddled, then Sherlock answered after a moment of thought; I want to see you writing blog. An odd change of heart from the guy who always complained about John's writing. John asked for the reason why, but Sherlock didn't answer. As expected. It seemed like Sherlock Holmes was in a rather secret mood today.

Anyway, that was the reason why John Watson was typing fervently with his notebook. Unlike Sherlock who could fluently type as many as 1000 words in a matter of minute, John had to chicken peck each word with great care. For a moment, he wondered if this was what Sherlock wanted; to laugh at his awfully slow typing style.

He raised he head, and found Sherlock staring at him intently while curled around the couch. His face was too solemn for a man who wanted to make fun of others.

"Sherlock."

"..."

"Sherlock."

"...Why?"

"What do you mean why, your phone is ringing! Someone is calling you. Please don't be stubborn and just pick it up, it's really rather loud."

Sherlock stood up with annoyed look, snatched the said phone sharply and then went to his room. Sound of their conversation became smaller as Sherlock walked way, but it was obvious that whoever on the other line was seriously irked. Not that this fact gave any clue about the caller. Most people talking with Sherlock showed similar reaction.

"Who was it?" John asked after Sherlock came back. He was climbing back to the coach assuming the same posture as before.

"Lestrade, new case."

"Oh? Was it that 'boring', seeing as you are not even preparing to go out?"

"No, it sounded interesting, at least on the phone."

At his unexpected answer, John tilted his head. His gesture clearly posed the question why, and Sherlock said simply in return.

"I told you, I want to be with you today."

Just what happen to that icy man? Not knowing how to react properly, John decided to go back to his blog. Maybe, Irene's aftereffect was bigger than John had anticipated.

**6:20 P.M**

It was disconcerting, the way Sherlock's eyes followed him even more obsessively than usual. To distract himself, John turned on the telly. Doctor Who rerun was currently being played. John thought Sherlock would complain non-stop about the whole show; poor CG effect, Doctor's inconceivable self-imposed mission to save Earth of all place, ridiculousness of traveling time and space with something as noticeable as blue phone box, and so on. However, he didn't say a word about any of these things. He just silently watched Doctor trying to save people by turning back time.

Today's Sherlock was oddly unfamiliar, in one way or another.

**7:00 P.M**

They were sitting at Angelo's restaurant. John protested that there was no need for that since they had such huge lunch, but Sherlock simply ignored John's word. That's why he was here, with (sadly) familiar 'romantic' candles at his side, slicing meat in small little pieces. Oh, and the wine was there, too.

Maybe it was the alcohol speaking, but dinner was rather pleasant. Sherlock deduced few things about people sitting around them, and told some of interesting cases he took before John became his flatmate. John exclaimed such words as 'brilliant' or 'fantastic' without meaning to say those aloud, but Sherlock seemed to bask in those words, not getting bored at all at the repetition. It was such a child-like thing to do, and it even seemed a bit endearing.

**8:15 P.M **

The weather was good for a little walk. So they did just that, and were returning home a bit later than they expected. When they almost came at the Baker Street, Sherlock told John to go on without him since he remembered something else to do. He also told John to remain home and not go anywhere. Watching Sherlock's dramatically swishing coat disappearing to the alley, John smiled a bit. Obviously, Sherlock was belatedly going to that crime scene Lestrade talked about. Well, it was a miracle that he waited this long, he shook his head as he ascended the stairs.

**9:00 P.M**

"Sherlock? How come did you get back so soon?"

"Where did you think I had gone to?" Sherlock said while throwing his coats and scarf haphazardly.

"The crime scene Lestrade invited you to come, wasn't it?"

Instead of an answer, a rectangular object flew to his direction; a notebook. Its' cover had deep navy colour, and briefing through it revealed that it was full of blank pages yet to be written.

"You were finished with your last case note," was Sherlock's short explanation.

John's eyes rounded widely. Does this mean he went out for this? Not for the sake of a murder case, not for an interesting experiment, but just to buy this simple little notebook for him? A pleasant laughter came out of John. He didn't forget to say thank you to the detective.

**10:25 P.M**

Fireplace was emitting warm glow. John was reading books in front of it while Sherlock was playing violin. The tune of violin was not sad and melancholy as was the case after the Irene Incident, but light and cheerful, perfectly mirroring John's taste. Some neighbors may complain about this close to mid-night concert, but John loved the sound of Sherlock's violin.

**11:45 P.M**

John was melted on the coach. He was so tired that even the idea of crossing the short distance between the living room and his room felt like a torture. The reason for his tiredness was in part due to the wine he had, and in another part due to the serene tone of violin. Or more likely, it was because John couldn't sleep well last night worrying over how Sherlock would deal with Irene's disappearance. Whatever the reason was, it was all Sherlock's fault.

**11:57 P.M**

"John."

Sherlock's low voice tickled his ears. His eyelids felt like they weighed tones, but John managed to open them faintly to see Sherlock kneeling beside him. His expression was weird. It looked like he was smiling and crying at the same time. Sherlock was the man who didn't show an expression like that.

"I'm sorry."

For what? John tried to ask, but his tongue was leaden, too. He couldn't force it to move as he wished to. John tried with all his might not to close his eyes.

"And, thanks for believing in me."

Another cryptic comment. John felt the sandman's pull to the dreamland. Tomorrow morning, John promised to himself, tomorrow morning I would ask him what he meant by that. Also would have to ask what happened to him, got to hear the answer to the question he evaded all day; what happened?

**12:00 A.M**

John Watson closed his eyes.

However, the day he could hear the answer to that question never came. Next morning Sherlock claimed that he had no memory of what happened yesterday. Chemical experiment from that morning must have gone wrong, he said. John wanted to shake that man and tell him not to say such ridiculous things, but at Sherlock's utterly clueless expression, managed to curb that impulse. That oddly sweet man from yesterday was replaced yet again with the whimsical and selfish flatmate who continuously demanded coffee and phone from him. This is who Sherlock is, John thought to himself, but couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed. The memory of that day only remained as a navy notebook of his.

And now, Sherlock was dead.

John couldn't even bring himself to step inside 221B Baker Street until now. The notebook he always carried around was the only thing that was related to Sherlock Holmes he possessed. Even so, it was only after saying his piece to the tomb of Sherlock that he gathered enough nerve to open the note.

Watching his letters pressed onto the paper, he flipped through memories he shared with his best friend. He hadn't finished this notebook yet. About ten pages remained blank and faded. What should I fill these pages with, John thought bitterly. He came to the last page, at last. And there were letters that didn't belong to him.

_I'm sorry_

_John, let me explain_

_In fact, I am_

_The reason why I'm writhing this _

It was Sherlock's. Sherlock had written few words, crossed them out, and then started again, only to erase them again. By the look of it, it seemed like the great detective had quite a lot of trouble forming this personal letter. John imagined the concentrated look that would have graced the face of the man who had dreadfully little talent in writing emotional stuff. It made him laugh a bit.

Underneath the crossed lines neatly laid a simple sentence.

_Thank you for being with me. _

John stared at those little words for a longtime.

It was almost half a year after the 'death' of Sherlock Holmes. In that short period, his life had been threatened seven times, and he had to change his alias four times. He was relieved that John wasn't with him in this dangerous situation, but still hoped that his friend had come with him. He hoped that John wouldn't grieve too much for his death, but also wanted John to keep getting heartaches because he couldn't forget Sherlock. In fact, he couldn't make up his mind when it came to John Watson. If he wished for something, the very opposite of that wish would slither to his mind. That was the problem with 'emotions', and it seemed like it couldn't be blocked again once that dam had opened.

The room was cold. Shivering slightly, he curled into a little ball. As it had always been the case when he had some free time, Sherlock's brain started to lay out scenarios as to how the reunion with John would proceed. How should he come back to John's life? And what should he do after that? Maybe, he should cook something for his friend. John always nagged him about food, so it would be appropriate to pay him back with food. Or they could simply go back to everyday 'routine' they had. Nothing special, but to the lives they had once shared. But Sherlock knew that all these contemplations were useless. May John wouldn't be able to forgive him, not ever. It was likely that he couldn't even properly apologize, let alone be with him together. He wanted, at least for a very short time-

Lost in his own thought, Sherlock was started awake at the sensation of someone touching his shoulder. Goddamn it, he cursed himself for drifting around such useless thoughts. Nobody knew that Sherlock was sleeping in this hotel. Maybe it was another assassin-

"Sherlock?"

At that familiar voice, Sherlock felt his body going rigid. Rye colored hair and kind navy eyes, all those things were screaming that it was John. Sherlock wondered if he was seeing delusion because he had wished for it so much.

"...John?" He could feel his hands shaking, so he forcefully made it into fists. "Why are you.. but I, how could-"

He stared at John. He was looking at Sherlock without any trace of hatred or resentment, his eyes only filled with sheer concern for his best friend. If John thought that Sherlock came back from his fake death, he wouldn't look at him like that. The idea that it was just a trick that his brain was playing on him became stronger and stronger. He hastily stretched his hands and cupped John's face. It felt like John would disappear the moment he let go of him. And It was warm. He could feel heat radiating from John. It was real. Sherlock felt his eyes going hazy.

It didn't matter how it happened. John was here.

Breathing is boring, he used to tell John that. But now, leaning against John's shoulder, he felt like breathing for the first time in many months and-

-it wasn't boring at all.


End file.
